


Eliot Waugh Took An Axe

by Lexalicious70



Category: The Magicians
Genre: AU, Lizzie Borden trial, M/M, true crime au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:15:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25811194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexalicious70/pseuds/Lexalicious70
Summary: In 1892 Indiana, the small town of White Falls is rocked by a double axe murder, and the main suspect is the family’s only child, 24-year-old Eliot Waugh. The case is assigned to the town’s newest (and youngest) defense attorney, Quentin Coldwater, who learns that there is more to the case--and to Eliot--that meets the eye.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 10
Kudos: 25





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> AUs abound! I don’t own these characters and tip my hat to the memory of everyone involved in the Lizzie Borden case, which I believe will always fascinate me. For more fic fun, follow me on Twitter @Neptunes_Net. Some facts about the case were gleaned from The Trial of Lizzie Borden, by Cara Robertson, which I highly recommend. Thanks to @machtaholic for advice about court details. Comments and kudos are magic and, as always, enjoy!

White Falls, Indiana, dozed under an oppressive blanket of heat, the air thick with a stagnant humidity that teased the chance of rain but gave none. The heat wave, now in its third week as July faded and gave way to August, showed no signs of slowing on the morning of the 4th day of the month. By 11 a.m., townsfolk went about their business, either using paper fans to cool their faces or to finish errands by noon so they could escape back into the cool interiors of their homes before the worst of the day’s heat made being outdoors intolerable. With the turn of the 20th century still eight years away, there were few other options for escaping the heat. 

Like other blocks nearby, Second Street stood quiet, devoid of the usual daily racket: barking dogs running excitedly after children at play, chatter over backyard fences, the sound of carriages as they rattled by. All appeared as still as a tired hound resting under a porch--until the door at number 92 burst open at a few minutes after 11 a.m. The home belonged to prominent White Falls citizen Ezra Waugh, where he lived with his wife Sarah, son Eliot, and their housekeeper Margo “Maggie” Hanson. Ezra once had a daughter as well, Emmaline, but she’d died two years earlier of uncontrollable uterine bleeding at the age of seventeen. 

“Help!” Margo cried as she and Eliot staggered onto the porch and then across the street, where Margo knocked on a neighbor’s door with both hands. Mrs. Daniels came to the door, wiping her hands on her apron, her brow furrowed. 

“Maggie? Eliot! Why, you’re both paler than cream! What’s wrong?” 

“Ring for the police, Mrs. Daniels, please!” Eliot replied. At 24, Eliot shared his father’s bearing--tall, narrow, with dark hair kept short to keep his natural curls from showing. His eyes, though, were unlike Ezra’s piercing blue and instead gleamed like fresh honey, the amber shade shifting with gold flecks and, as most people in the neighborhood noticed, were infinitely kinder. 

“The police! What happened?” 

“Please hurry, Mrs. Daniels! Someone has broken in and killed father!” 

“Killed!” The matronly woman paled and crossed herself. “Oh Eliot, are you sure?” 

“Yes! Please summon the police, our home doesn’t have a phone!” Tears stood in Eliot’s eyes as Margo wrung her hands. Mrs. Daniels dashed to the phone and Eliot made his way back across the street with Margo following. He made it as far as the cross-hatched wooden gate of the Waugh residence before leaning on one of its posts, his hands over his eyes. He remained that way, unmoving, until a policeman arrived. 

____________________________________________________________________________

  
  
  


Patrolman Greg Allen stared at the carnage spread across the Waugh’s parlor sofa as he tried to keep his head. Serious crimes in White Falls were uncommon, and murders--especially as brutal as this one--were almost unheard of. Ezra Waugh laid on his back on the sofa, most of his upper body still reclined while his legs pointed toward the floor. His hands rested on his abdomen. The look of his face and head made the patrolman want to flee the home and the grisly scene: the man’s face was nothing more than a churned mess of blood, gristle and raw, red flesh. His left eye was cleaved in half and a viscous jelly-like substance still oozed from the shattered socket. Blood coated both the body and the sofa. 

“Jesus wept!” The patrolman said at last. “What’s happened here?” 

“Someone’s murdered him!” Eliot said, putting a hand to his mouth. “Isn’t that obvious to you?” 

“And neither you or your housekeeper heard any noise?” 

“I was in the barn, looking for fishing supplies.” 

“And I was up in my room, resting.” Margo put in. 

“Eliot, where’s your mother?” Allen asked. 

“Stepmother. And Mrs. Waugh got a note--she’s gone to visit a sick friend.” 

“Have you summoned a doctor?” 

“I only just came in!” Eliot said before turning to Margo. “Can you fetch Dr. Bowen?” 

“Yes, right away.” She hurried off and the patrolman turned away from the grisly scene. 

“I’ll have to call in my superiors. Something like this . . . sweet Lord, how could it have happened?” 

“Father had many enemies,” Eliot replied in a flat, toneless manner. “More so than anyone ever knew about.” 

“Enemies?” 

“Yes . . . his banking duties, the loans he refused. He’d tell me of them and I was always afraid someone would try to harm us!” 

Margo returned with the Waugh’s family doctor, Dr. Josiah Bowen. He’d doctored the family from the time Emma was born, and Ezra had always counted him as a close family friend. He even took supper with the Waughs every other Sunday. Behind him stood two more police officers. 

“Ezra! Dear God . . .” the stout, graying physician murmured as he bent over the couch. Allen watched, his expression grim. 

“I reckoned there was little you could do, Dr. Bowen, but we’ll need your expertise, regardless.” 

“Yes, of course,” Bowen replied. “Pity I must say the poor man is dead. Likely the first one or two blows did him in.” 

“The killer might still be here!” Eliot gasped suddenly. “Officer Allen, should you not search the house?” 

“We’ll make sure there’s no one here who shouldn’t be, Mister Eliot,” the patrolman nodded. Dr. Bowen crouched by Ezra’s body to continue his examination. 

“Looks like he was done in with an axe or hatchet.” 

“I don’t understand! Who could do such a thing?” Eliot asked as Margo let in two more policemen who had been summoned to help search the house. “And to do it while father lay there napping!” 

“You’re certain he was asleep?” Dr. Bowen asked and Eliot nodded, unshed tears making his eyes glimmer. 

“He’d been to the bank . . . I was here when he returned. He asked after Mrs. Waugh and I told him of the note she’d gotten . . .” 

“Sir!” One of the other officers shouted to patrolman Allen. “Here. in the bedroom!” 

“I can’t bear to see!” Eliot said to Margo, who squeezed his hand before she ventured up the steps. She reached the landing, blanched, turned away. 

“Margo, what is it? Is--is there another?” 

“Yes,” Margo replied before putting a hand to her mouth. Eliot fumbled a silk handkerchief from his shirt pocket and wiped his eyes, his cheeks pale. 

“Oh, Dr. Bowen . . . I”ll have to visit the cemetery alone!” He fretted, and Bowen glanced up from his notebook, where he’d begun a detailed description of Ezra’s body. 

“Now now, don’t concern yourself with that,” he soothed. Having served as the family doctor for many years, he knew Ezra had doted on and sheltered Eliot for many years. At an age where a young man should be thinking about marriage or a career path, Eliot still lived at home and appeared to be left to his own devices much of the time. 

_ It’s Emmaline’s, death, surely. He’d already lost the daughter, so it’s natural he wants to protect the only child he has left.  _

“It’s Sarah Waugh,” one of the policemen said to Officer Allen. “She’s been done the same way, looks to me.” The officer reached the bottom of the stairway. 

“My stepmother has been murdered as well?” Eliot asked, and the man nodded. 

“I’m afraid it’s so, Mister Eliot.” 

“Oh . . .” Eliot slumped against the nearest wall as Margo stepped forward to fan him with her apron. The policemen exchanged glances. 

“I’m terribly sorry for your loss, young sir,” Office Allen said as he stepped forward. “But in the light of these terrible killings, I’m going to have to ask you Miss Hanson a few questions.” 


	2. Two

“This heat . . . please, are we nearly finished?” 

Eliot dabbed at his brow with a handkerchief as he, Margo, the policemen, and Dr. Bowen sat in the kitchen. A carriage had carried the bodies away to the morgue thirty minutes earlier, where they would be examined further. 

“We’ll have to chuck out the sofa,” Margo said suddenly. “I’ll not be able to get the blood out of it.” 

“Let’s not worry about that now,” Officer Allen said. “Just the details of what you recall.” 

“But I’ve told you what I know!” Margo insisted. “I washed the windows and went to lie down on my cot for a bit--I didn’t feel well because of the mutton . . . “Mister Eliot, please, tell him!” 

Eliot closed his eyes as he wrung the handkerchief in both hands. 

“Mrs. Waugh put cold mutton and mutton stew on for breakfast. It was the fourth day and I think it had turned, but father insisted she not waste the rest. We all felt a bit ill, and I think that’s why father chose to nap when he returned from the bank. That, or perhaps the milk was poisoned.” 

“Why would that be?” One of the policemen asked. 

“It’s as I told Officer Allen earlier . . . father had his enemies.” 

“I’m sure the bodies will be examined at length,” Officer Allen put in. “Not to be indelicate, Mister Eliot, but there will likely be examinations--autopsies--it’s already been ordered because of the nature of the deaths, y’see.” 

“Yes, I understand,” Eliot nodded. “But we must have a service.” 

“Of course, but for the moment, we really should get back to the matter at hand. Can you show us the note that came for Mrs. Waugh?” 

“I can’t say what happened to it. Perhaps it’s on her person or she took it with her.” 

“And you can’t say who fetched her out?” Officer Davies, one of the older cops, asked. 

“No sir. I didn’t see the note myself.” 

“I see.” Officer Davies made a note in his report book. “And you say you were not in the house when we believe the killings happened?” 

“No sir. I was in the barn, looking for lead weights. I think I may have tarried in the hayloft . . . I’d put a basket of peaches up from one of our trees in the garden the day before and I paused to eat a few. The breakfast mutton was so awful that I had had some cookies and tea instead, so I was still hungry.” 

“Mmmm. And when you came back inside, that’s when you found your father’s body?” 

“Yes sir.” 

Davies flipped his book closed with a single motion of his wrist. 

“And you, Miss Hanson, you were in your room until you heard Mister Eliot call out?” 

“Yes sir, that’s correct.” 

“Right then,” Davies nodded, and tapped his pen on the cover of the notebook. “You lot,” he said to the others, “Come with me. Excuse us, Mister Eliot, Miss Hanson.” He led his peers out the side door and scowled. 

“Sir? What is it?” Patrolman Allen asked. 

“I don’t like that boy,” 

“What--young Mister Eliot?” 

“Did you see the way he spoke? No real tears, no apparent shock over the murder of his stepmother.” 

“He said they weren’t close. And he called her ‘Mrs. Waugh’ instead of mother,” Allen observed. 

“All the same, I smell a rat, lads, and when I give my report to the captain, I’ll wager he’s going to smell it, too.” 

____________________________________________________________________________

After the police and Dr. Bowen left and the gawking neighbors of Second Street vanished back into their homes, Eliot retreated to his own room upstairs, which was still connected to his sister Emma’s room by a single door. His father sometimes talked about turning the room into a study or guest bedroom, but since her death, it remained much as she had left it. Eliot opened the connecting door and stepped into Emma’s room, where he sat on her bed. 

Eliot remembered every detail of the night she’d died--the pained screams that came from her room, the sheets and duvet red with blood, Ezra carrying her to the downstairs parlor and he commanded Sarah to call for Dr. Bowen, the cold warning expression he’d given Eliot when he’d come to the bottom of the stairs to look for his sister. She’d died on the parlor floor before Doc Bowen arrived and little was noted about it, other than she died of the same uterine congestion that took their mother when Eliot was two. Ezra didn’t like anyone discussing Emma and rarely went to the cemetery to visit and tidy her grave, as Eliot did once a month. His stepmother had little interest in preserving her memory, and keeping his sister’s final resting place neat was a debt Eliot felt he owed Emma, who had looked after him so tenderly after their mother died. 

_People are going to talk,_ Eliot thought to himself. _There were some in town who thought Emma’s death was peculiar but no one dared speak up. No one ever dared speak up to him at all._

He closed his eyes a moment, the silence in the house making his ears ring. 

_But sometimes the most important things don’t need a voice, or a how or a why. Especially when those things are wrong._

____________________________________________________________________________

Three Days Later 

“The mourners are here, Mister Eliot.” 

Eliot turned from the open kitchen window but there was no breeze there; the heat was no less oppressive than it had been on the day of his father’s and stepmother’s deaths. Margo stood in the doorway in her black mourning dress. The collar was a bit frayed and the hem shabby, but overall the dress itself was still dignified enough. Eliot’s mourning suit was fresh from the local tailor, as he’d last worn the vest and coat at Emma’s service and had since outgrown them. 

“How many?” Eliot asked, and Margo stepped into the kitchen. 

“Perhaps a few dozen.” 

“Mostly here for Mrs. Waugh, I imagine.” 

“Do you think so?” 

“There’s a difference between being well known and well liked.” Eliot straightened his tie. “Come on then, we’d best let them in.” 

Margo went to open the front door as Eliot glanced at the two simple closed caskets in the parlor, festooned with flowers. After the visitation, a carriage would return them to the morgue for further autopsy instead of carrying them to the cemetery just outside of town, the one that overlooked most of White Falls, to be buried next to Emma. 

The mourners came, one by one, to hug Eliot or shake his hand before going to the caskets to pray at the padded bench they had placed there. Eliot took the visitors’ words of sympathy as Margo accepted food gifts and took them to the kitchen. Cora Daniels, Eliot’s neighbor who had first summoned the police on the day of the murders, came to hug Eliot against her ample bosom and belly. 

“Oh Eliot, my sweet child, I’m so very sorry! It’s so awful! But be comforted . . . your father and Sarah are safe in the arms of the Lord now.” She pulled back and dabbed at her eyes with a satin hankie. “Is there any clue at all as to who’s responsible?” 

“No. The police are still investigating. The most we can figure is whoever did it came in through the basement and escaped the same way.” 

“But why? Perhaps Ezra had some that didn’t like him, but Sarah? I can’t imagine she had anyone who wanted to harm her!” 

“If it was some kind of madman, who would know his mind?” Eliot asked. “Or perhaps Mrs. Waugh saw the murderer and whoever it was silenced her before she could cry out.” 

“The poor soul,” Mrs. Daniels sighed as she queued up to view the caskets. Eliot retreated to the kitchen, where Margo was preparing some of the mourning food for storage. 

“I can’t endure it out there!” 

“I know it sets your heart crossways, Mister Eliot.” 

“All these people--some of them barely knew father! And the smell of those flowers--it makes me want to gag more so than I would at the smell of death!” 

Margo glanced into the parlor before taking Eliot’s hands. 

“You’ll be going wherever you please when this is done.” She squeezed his hands. “Remember all your dreams--the ones you told me about? You’ll have all of them and more, if you stay calm.” 

“I remember,” Eliot nodded as he listened for the hearse carriage to arrive. 

___________________________________________________________________________

After a two-hour visitation period, the hearse arrived and the caskets were bundled inside. Eliot stood in the doorway to watch and once it pulled away, the mourners drifted away as well. 

“Mr. Waugh?” 

Eliot turned at the deep male voice to see a stocky, dark-skinned bald man standing there, flanked by two local policemen. The shorter man had a sleepy basset hound countenance, all but his eyes, which were dark and watchful. “Eliot Waugh?” 

“Yes, that’s me,” Eliot nodded, and the police stepped forward as the man spoke again. 

“I’m Detective Henry Fogg. You’re under arrest on suspicion in the murders of Ezra and Sarah Waugh.” 

“Murder? What--” he glanced around for an escape route as the police seized and handcuffed him. 

“Yes--we believe you killed your parents.” Fogg nodded to the cops, who hustled Eliot into a waiting carriage. Eliot looked over his shoulder, his eyes wide with fear and shock. 

“Margo!” He cried as Fogg slammed the carriage door shut and snapped a whip over the heads of matching chestnut horses, which sprang forward and away. Margo chased after it a few steps and called to her friend, her hand outstretched. 

“I’ll get you help, Eliot, I promise!” 

The carriage rattled over a hill and out of sight, and Margo’s hand dropped to her side. 

“I don’t know how, but I’ll get you help.”


	3. Three

News of Eliot’s arrest traveled all through White Falls over the 24 hours following the event and by 27 hours after his father’s and stepmother’s funeral, Eliot found himself in a White Falls jail cell at the stone jailhouse, less than two blocks away from the bank his father owned. Fogg was keen to prosecute him, and with more lawyers believing in Eliot’s guilt than his innocence, Margo found legal help scarcer than a mango tree in winter. Her day-long search finally led her to a tiny basement office on Rose Road, one of the last unpaved streets in White Falls. A simple wooden plaque, tacked onto the side of the rundown building, caught Margo’s eye: 

QUENTIN M. COLDWATER 

ATTORNEY 

“Please, let this one be able to help,” Margo sighed as she descended the stairs and rapped on the door. A succession of thuds and a muffled curse came from within before the door opened. A slight-looking young man appeared, round, rimless specs resting on his nose. Clever yet wary dark eyes regarded Margo, and she gave an inward sigh. 

_ Saints defend us, he’s a boy!  _

“Yes--might I help you?” 

“I hope so. Are you Quentin Coldwater?” 

“Yes I am.” 

“I came for help. My employer--” Margo sighed. May I come in?” 

“In? Oh! Yes, yes of course, I do apologize.” Quentin opened the door wider for her. “Watch your step . . .” He led her inside. “I haven’t been in this location long, please do excuse the mess.” 

Margo glanced around. Boxes of books dominated the room, along with a desk piled high with folders and stacks of paper. A globe and other personal effects sat unpacked in a box by the door. 

“Long?” She inquired, and the young attorney offered a sheepish smile. 

“Well, to be truthful, I’ve only just moved in here. My law degree is rather fresh, still, and it’s all I could afford.” He shifted some papers around. “How can I be of service--” He glanced at her ringless left hand. “Miss?” 

“Margo. Margo Hanson. I’m employed by the Waugh family, on Second Street.” 

“Waugh?” Quentin cleared off a chair and gestured for her to sit. “You mean the double murder?” 

“Yes. The people killed were my employers and the police have arrested their son--my friend Eliot. They say there’s no one but him that could have done it and they won’t let me see him unless I bring legal representation.” 

Quentin sat behind his desk. 

“Miss Hanson--” 

“Margo.” 

“Yes, uhm . . . I do appreciate this offer but I’ve only just arrived in White Falls, and a double murder case--” 

“Could make your career!” Margo interjected. “Mr. Coldwater, I want you to defend my friend.” 

“I’m flattered . . . but surely for this type of case you would want someone more experienced?” 

“Maybe I would, if I could find one willing to at least be objective about the details! I’ve spent the day visiting nearly every attorney in White Falls, and they all turned me away!” 

Quentin tugged off his glasses and fished a clean handkerchief from his pocket, which he used to polish the lenses. 

“Are you sure of his innocence?” 

“Mr. Coldwater, please. There’s so much more to this than what appears to be. I’ve been authorized to offer this amount.” Margo slid a folded piece of paper across the desk. “As well as an additional sum if you win the case. Eliot stands to inherit everything due to the death of his father and stepmother. He’s the only one left. He had an older sister, but she died several years ago. He can afford to pay you.” 

Quentin unfolded the paper, fumbled his glasses, managed to put them on his face. 

“I don’t know what to say.” 

“Say that you’ll at least meet him? We’ll ask for no promises.” 

Quentin set the paper down. 

“And you say no one else in town will represent your friend?” 

“None that I’ve found.” 

Quentin nodded as he considered his peers back in law school--the ones who’d taunted him and gossiped because he chose to live at a boarding house instead of the school dorms, because he didn’t have a sweetheart, and because he spent most of his time with books. They’d shunned him at the dining halls and gave him cruel names like Little Baby Carrot and Pisswater. His slight build, social awkwardness, early entrance into university, and high IQ had set him on the fringe of the law school social hierarchy. 

_ But would any of them dare take this case?  _ Quentin asked himself.  _ Especially when all the experienced lawyers think Eliot Waugh is guilty? No . . . they’d never admit to having a different view, much less argue it in court.  _

“I’ll meet with Mr. Waugh,” Quentin said at last, and Margo clasped her hands together in relief. “Tomorrow, at noon. Meet me here at 11:45 if you wish to visit with him.” 

“I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Coldwater,” Margo said as she got to her feet. 

“Don’t thank me yet . . . you’re likely to get a lot of mockery by hiring the youngest attorney in White Falls.” 

“I don’t give a damn about mockery,” Margo said as she paused by the doorway. “I just don’t want my friend to hang!” 

____________________________________________________________________________

“Eliot Waugh! Visitors!” 

Eliot glanced up from his newspaper, startled. The guard motioned him to his feet and Eliot’s heart lifted as he saw Margo walk up to the cell, along with--who did we have here--a stranger, a young stranger. Eliot wrapped his hands around the iron bars of his cell. 

“Margo!” 

“Eliot! I’m so glad to see you!” Margo touched his hands. The guard shifted over but remained in sight. Quentin cleared his throat and Margo had him step forward. 

“Eliot, this is Quentin Coldwater, he’s a lawyer and he’s come down to talk to you. He might agree to take the case!” 

Eliot gazed down at the young man. He was narrow and slight, well under six feet tall in comparison to Eliot’s long frame. Dark eyes, full of intelligence and care behind rimless glasses, met his and then glanced away as he opened a briefcase. It looked oversized in his hands: this young man surely had yet to see his 25th birthday. 

“Yes, well . . . it’s good to meet you, Mr. Waugh. I’m sorry for your predicament--” Quentin dug a fountain pen and a legal pad from the briefcase, which was clearly secondhand. “Perhaps if you could give me your version of the, uh, events, if you will, of August 4th?” 

“I can tell you what I told the police,” Eliot replied. “I told them what I think happened but they don’t believe me!” 

“Because it’s a rather improbable tale,” Henry Fogg chimed in as he walked up to the cell. Eliot scowled at him. 

“If you might excuse me, detective--” 

“I’m also the White Falls district attorney, which I think you’re aware of, Mr. Waugh.” He glanced over at Quentin. “I don’t know you.” 

Quentin bristled at the older man’s tone, as if his very presence was an affront to the D.A. 

“I’m Quentin Coldwater . . . attorney at law,” he added as an amused smile appeared on Fogg’s lips. 

“An attorney, you say? But you’re just a child! Don’t tell me you’re making a huge mistake by getting caught up in this case--or that you plan on defending this man!” Fogg jerked his chin at Eliot. 

Dislike for the cocky D.A., along with his smirking reference to his age, made Quentin’s stomach cramp with bile and he moved closer to the jail cell. 

“As a matter of fact, I am.” He looked up at Eliot. “If you accept my help, that is.” 

“I accept!” Eliot nodded as Margo closed her eyes and touched a hand to her heart. Fogg chuckled. 

“Very well then, Mr. Coldwater. I’ll see you at the arraignment.” Fogg walked away, straightening his coat as he went. Quentin fought the urge to spit after him. 

“That man,” Margo observed, “is a walking maggot pie!” 

“Agreed,” Eliot sighed. He’s already got most people in town thinking I’m guilty, no doubt.” 

“We shall do our best to remedy that,” Quentin opened his legal pad. “Now, where were we? Ah yes . . . August 4th.” 

“It was hot . . . dreadfully hot and humid, We had cold mutton and mutton stew and johnnycakes for breakfast, but none of us ate much. Father and Mrs. Waugh were up sick with a stomach grippe the night before, and Margo didn’t feel well either.” 

“It was that bloody mutton,” Margo frowned. “I’m not wont to speak ill of the dead, but it was the fourth serving and smelled rank when Mrs. Waugh put it on for supper the night before. It was practically down to the marrow by then.” 

“Did you feel sick as well?” Quentin asked Eliot, who nodded. 

“I didn’t eat much breakfast because my stomach complained.” 

“What time did your father leave for the bank?” 

“Around 9:15. I couldn’t stomach what Mrs. Waugh put on for breakfast so I made myself some tea and ate a few cookies.” 

“And Mrs. Waugh?” 

“I honestly don’t know. I remember a boy delivering a note to her about a sick friend and that she was called away.” 

“Do you know where the note is?” 

“No. It must be with her clothing or perhaps she took it with her and disposed of it somewhere else. I wasn’t able to find it when the police asked.” 

Quentin jotted down notes as he nodded. 

“So you can’t say when she arrived back?” 

“It must have been after father returned. I was still in the house when he came home--it was around 10:30, I think.” Eliot paused then, filling a metal cup from the pitcher of tepid water the guards had left. “It was still so hot and father said he still didn’t feel well. I helped him get comfortable then went out to the barn.” He took another sip of water. “That’s when the killer must have gotten in and struck.” 

“Through the basement, most likely,” Margo put in. “I can only imagine what might have happened to me if my room wasn’t so isolated.” 

“And where is it?” Quentin asked. 

“Up in the attic. I imagine that’s why I didn’t hear anything until Eliot shouted for me.” 

“Perhaps,” Quentin nodded. “And Mr. Waugh, you said you left the house at one point?” 

“Please, call me Eliot. I don’t want to be reminded of my father.” 

“Of course, I’m sorry. Eliot . . . when you left the house, where did you go?” 

“To the barn. I was thinking I’d go fishing later and went to look for a lead weight to make a sinker. Father kept some in the barn, along with some other fishing supplies.” 

“Did he fish often?” 

“Not since his businesses began to prosper.” Eliot shook his head. “But he taught me, and I thought I might bring Mrs. Waugh some fresh trout for supper.” 

“So you wouldn’t have to face the mutton again?” Quentin asked, pushing up his glasses with one finger, and Eliot felt some of the tightness leave his chest. 

“That’s it exactly,” he replied. “I couldn’t find any sinkers so I went up to the hayloft--there’s always something of a breeze when the loft door is open. I ate some peaches from a basket we’d stored away.” He sighed. “Perhaps if I hadn’t lost track of time, I could have stopped it.” 

“Or you may have been murdered too,” Quentin pointed out, and Eliot sat down on the small cot in his cell. 

“Maybe that wouldn’t have been so terrible.” 

“Why would you say such a thing?” Quentin asked as he removed his glasses. 

“Because I’m the last now,” Eliot replied. 

“When Miss Hanson brought your case to me, she mentioned you had a sister.” 

“Yes. Had.” 

“So she’s no longer living.” 

“No. She passed of feminine bleeding, two years ago. Her troubles are past, Mr. Coldwater.” 

“Call me Quentin. We’ll be working together, after all.” 

“Quentin, then.” Eliot wiped at his forehead. “But yes, I had a sister. Emmaline.” 

“So it’s not possible she may have anything to do with what happened. A lover your father didn’t approve of?” 

Eliot gave a harsh bark of laughter. 

“I’m going to assume you never met my father.” 

“No, I only just moved to White Falls.” 

“Then you don’t understand.” Eliot’s gaze cut to Margo. “Margo, be a love and ask the guards if I might have some fresh water? What’s in that pitcher tastes like it’s been soaking a horse’s bit.” 

“Of course,” Margo nodded and walked back toward the hall’s entrance. Eliot caught Quentin’s eye, and the young man slipped his glasses back on. 

“My father was a monster. The people of White Falls saw him as a miser and they weren’t wrong about that, but there’s so much more. Please . . .” Eliot glanced down the hall as keys rattled in a lock. Please help me!” 

___________________________________________________________________________

An hour later, Quentin returned to his boarding house room, his mind a whirl. While he’d gone to visit Eliot Waugh to get answers, the interview had only yielded more questions instead. 

“Oh hell,” Quentin sighed as he sat down on the bed’s thin mattress. Like many first-generation Americans, he’d been raised with a mix of British and American values and culture but his father, who had emigrated to Boston as a child, impressed a more Yankee vocabulary upon his only son. As a result, Quentin’s speech had something of a British construction but was peppered with American slang. Quentin’s mother, a painter and violinist from York, had never embraced America and left home when her son was nine to pursue her passions back in Europe. Quentin’s father, Theodore, was a rather passive fellow who never bothered with a divorce, assuming his wife would return from what he called “Regina’s sabbatical,” eventually. 

_ Never mind that she’d left over thirteen years earlier, _ Quentin thought to himself as he undid his loafers and swung his stocking feet up onto the bed. Henry Fogg’s smug almost-smile stuck in his mind’s eye and he frowned. 

“The goddamned arrogance,” Quentin muttered as he sat up and snagged his briefcase so he could review his notes. The timeline allowed for the murders to take place, if one believed Eliot’s version of the story. Ezra had likely been killed in his sleep and Sarah before that, according to the coroner he’s spoken to. If Margo was the only person in the house at the time of the murders and Sarah Waugh died and fell in the room almost directly under her, shouldn’t she have heard the body fall? 

“Play your own devil’s advocate, why don’t you,” Quentin muttered to himself, “as if you won’t have enough detractors once the case begins.” He scanned his notes again. Eliot’s account seemed plausible, yet . . . 

_ My father was a monster.  _

Those words came back to Quentin again and again, like some odd mantra. And as much as Eliot seemed to trust his housekeeper and friend, he’d sent her away before he’d said it. Why? If what Eliot said about Ezra Waugh was true, wouldn’t Margo know that from living with the family? Unless the elder Waugh put on a carefully-crafted persona when he was out in public? 

“It could be possible,” Quentin murmured to himself. “Many a guilty man has slipped away from the law, even murderers. Look at Jack the Ripper, after all.” He slipped his glasses off and touched one of the posts to his lips in thought. 

_ I need to speak to Eliot Waugh alone, away from Margo and the jailhouse guards. But how?  _

The question remained with Quentin as he took a meal of cold ham, bread, and strawberries before changing into his nightshirt and washing his face. The solution came to him as he was tucking his feet under the covers. He sat back up, a sound of realization escaping him. Despite Ezra Waugh’s miserly reputation, he’d sent Eliot to Europe for nearly a month back in June. Was it possible . . . ? 

It would have to be, Quentin realized as he laid down and pulled the top sheet over himself, if he was going to unravel the mystery of Eliot Waugh’s confession. 


	4. Four

Quentin arrived at the jailhouse early the next morning to find Eliot picking at the breakfast they’d given him: a soft-boiled egg, a piece of stiff-looking toast, and black coffee. 

“That doesn’t look very appetizing, Quentin said as he pulled up a chair, and Eliot glanced up. 

“Quentin, hello. You’re here early.” He poked at the bread. “No . . . but I’ll take it over my stepmother’s mutton.” 

Quentin blinked and then chuckled as Eliot flashed him a smile. 

“Forgive me. I have a morbid sense of humor.” 

“Sometimes it’s the morbid things that are also the most weirdly amusing,” Quentin replied. “But I came early because I wanted to speak to you alone.” 

Eliot flicked a glance at the nearby guard. 

“That’s the thing about a jailhouse. You’re never really alone.” 

“Maybe,” Quentin nodded, then leaned in. “Except if you happen to understand me if I speak this way?” He asked in French, and Eliot’s attention snapped back to Quentin with an expression that might have been comical were he not sitting in a jail cell. 

“I do!” He replied in kind, “But how do you know--” 

“Student exchange during my undergrad years. I wanted to see Europe but didn’t have the money. You either pick up the language quickly or the place kind of eats you up.” 

“It rather does,” Eliot nodded, staring at Quentin. “But--” He cast an anxious glance at the guard, and Quentin shook his head. 

“They can’t force us to speak English. They can only enforce their own rules.” Quentin pulled the legal pad and pen from his briefcase. “Tell me about what you said last night, about your father being a monster. What did you mean?” 

Eliot closed his eyes a moment. 

“He was never well-liked in White Falls. Perhaps there were those who respected him, but it’s not the same thing.” 

“Did you?” Quentin asked. 

“Only when I was in his presence, because it was necessary. He’d accept nothing else. I don’t know what your father is like, but when Ezra William Waugh wanted your respect, you gave it.” 

“Is that what made him a monster?” Quentin asked, thinking of his studious, gentle father, a university textbook editor who had never laid a hand on him in anger. 

“No.” Eliot looked away. Quentin watched him. 

“Eliot, if I’m going to help you at all, you must tell me the truth.” 

“I hated him!” Eliot said suddenly, his tone a low, loathing hiss. “He saw my sister and me as his property, not his children! He took of us what he wanted!” 

“Tell me what you mean,” Quentin coaxed, speaking past the sudden slamming of his heart. 

“He killed my sister!” Eliot choked the words out as if they were made of acid. “He killed her and his wife knew--she knew and she was compliant because she was afraid of him!” 

Quentin fumbled his fountain pen and closed his fingers around it in a sudden spasm. A blob of ink marked his palm as he tried to hide his shock from the nearby guard. 

“Christ,” He whispered. “Eliot, are you certain?” 

“Yes! I--” 

The rattle of keys in a door down the hall interrupted, and Henry Fogg stepped through to walk toward them. Quentin closed his notepad. 

“Ah, Mr. Coldwater! Just the man I wanted to see. They’ve set a date for the inquest. I came down to see if your client wants to confess now and save us all the trouble.” He gave Quentin a patronizing smile that the young man wanted to tear from his face and shove up the pompous man’s ass. 

“My client hasn’t one word to say to you,” Quentin replied, and Fogg’s grin turned predatory. 

“Is that so?” 

Quentin gave a curt nod and Eliot turned his back on the prosecutor. Fogg only chuckled. The sound set Quentin’s teeth on edge and he stiffened his spine. 

“Very well. Friday, at 9 a.m. And just so you’re aware, Mr. Waugh, I’ve asked the judge to keep you incarcerated, as I believe you’re a flight risk, and he’s agreed.” 

Eliot kept his back turned and Fogg nodded. 

“Then we’ll see you each on Friday.” 

“We?” Eliot muttered as he turned to watch Fogg depart. “He must think he’s the queen!” 

“He’s a royal pain in the ass,” Quentin snapped, then he sighed. “Eliot, I’m sorry. Do you want me to speak to the judge on your behalf?” 

“No. It sounds like he’s already made up his mind about me. Have they kept Margo out of the house? I don’t care about my lodgings but I won’t have her out on the street.” 

“I’ll check on her for you.” 

“Thank you.” 

Quentin checked his silver-plated pocket watch, a law school graduation gift from his father. “Damn--I have to go if I’m going to prepare for this inquest. Is there anything you need?” 

“Aside from your trust? Perhaps a few books to read.” 

“The first you have. The latter I can bring you tonight.” Quentin packed his briefcase. 

“Thank you.” Eliot stuck a hand out through the bars and Quentin took it, giving the tall man’s fingers a gentle squeeze. Eliot blinked as though he’d expected Quentin to refuse the touch, then withdrew his hand. 

“I’ll see you tonight,” Quentin said as he stepped back, suddenly reluctant to leave. Eliot held his gaze. 

“Until then.” 

____________________________________________________________________________

On his way back to his office, Quentin stopped off at the Waugh home to check on Margo, as he’d promised Eliot. He found the young woman on the side of the house, hanging wash on a clothesline. A metal tub full of wet clothes sat at her feet and as Quentin approached, he could see tear tracks on her cheeks. He cleared his throat and Margo started, pulling several clothespins from her mouth. 

“Oh! It’s you, Mr. Coldwater, thank Christ.” 

“Call me Quentin, please. Are you all right?” 

“Yes, I suppose so. I was out front earlier, pulling weeds, and the stares and catcalls from passersby were just too much for me. I came to work where no one could see me.” 

“I’m sorry. That’s terribly unfair. Has anyone harassed you about staying here?” 

“No, thankfully,” Margo said. “And it’s not that I particularly want to stay, really, but I have nowhere else to go.” 

“I can ask Eliot if--” Quentin began, but Margo shook her head. 

“You mustn't worry him. I’ll be fine--if Mr. or Mrs. Waugh’s ghosts come to visit and claim my soul, I’ll have no more cares, will I?” 

“I see you and Eliot share the same sense of humor. Can we go inside a moment?” He asked, and saw doubt flicker in her eyes. “I’ll be discreet, Margo, I promise you. Please, it’s for Eliot.” 

“All right then” she sighed as she finished hanging the wash. “I don’t suppose I could fall any further in the eyes of the folk in White Falls.” 

Quentin took the empty metal tub from her. 

“Don’t worry about the eyes of White Falls. They see what they want, no matter the truth,” he said as they entered the Waugh home through the side entrance to the kitchen. 

“That’s especially true when you work as a servant,” Margo sighed as she shut the door behind them. “There’s not much that will save your soul then.” 

“But you and Eliot seem close.” 

“Eliot has never treated me as anything less than a friend. He always stood up for me as much as he could.” 

“Off the record . . . have you and he ever had a physical relationship?” 

The corners of Margo’s lips quirked upward. 

“You’re a learned man, aye? Do you know of Oscar Wilde?” 

“Yes, the writer.”

Margo nodded, holding Quentin’s gaze. It settled in Quentin’s mind like a heavy object dropped from a balcony, and he busied himself setting the washtub down. 

“Oh . . . uhm, I see! Well then.” He cleared his throat and Margo gestured for him to sit down at the kitchen table before filling a glass of water for each of them. 

“Understand that it’s only something he’s come to learn about himself. He’s committed no illegal act in that way.” 

“Thank you.” Quentin sat and took a long sip of water. “I visited with Eliot a while ago. I wanted to discuss something he told me, if you know anything about it.” 

“If it’ll help Eliot, I’ll do all I can.” 

“Did you work for the Waughs when Eliot’s sister died?” 

“I did. I’d been with them maybe six months.” 

“And the way she died . . . did you find anything strange about it?” 

“There was plenty strange, and much of it was before the poor girl died.” 

“Can you tell me?” 

“She was a lovely girl. Dark eyes, eyes like the sky just before sunrise. She was a doting sister and loved Eliot very much. She all but raised him after their mama died.” 

“And what was the cause of their mother’s death?” 

“Eliot was little more than a babe when she passed and he doesn’t remember much, he’s told me. Some kind of female trouble in the womb. Emma died of the same affliction.” 

“Can you be certain?” 

“What do you mean?” Margo frowned. 

“Who told you it was female troubles? Were you here when she died?” 

“I was.” 

Quentin sipped his water. 

“What if I told you that someone believes she was murdered?” 

Margo peered at him before shuttering her expression into something one might see on an expert poker player. 

“And this someone . . . what did they tell you, exactly?” 

“I didn’t learn much, other than what they think really happened as far as the manner of her death. What can you tell me, Margo?” 

“About Emma’s death? There was some kind of bleeding in her womb. I’m not a doctor, Quentin! I’m a first-generation Irish-American whose mum took in laundry so I could eat and stay clothed! She taught me to read and died of cholera when I was fifteen.” 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I only thought if you knew something more about Emma’s death, it might help with Eliot’s case. There’s to be an inquest in two days’ time.” 

“And what will that do?” 

“The inquest will help the judge decide if Fogg has enough evidence of foul play to take the case to trial.” 

Margo cast her gaze downward. 

“And if he goes to trial, will Fogg seek the death penalty?” 

Quentin nodded. 

“He’ll likely hang if he’s found guilty, Margo.” 

“Bloody hell,” Margo muttered, closing her eyes. Quentin wanted to reach for her hand but didn’t want to frighten her any further. 

“Please . . . please tell me what you know.” 

“I don’t know if I can. It may not help at all.” 

“Margo--” 

“All right!” She almost shouted. “All right . . .” She drained her water glass, refilled it, set it back down. 

“I can tell you what I saw that night and what Eliot told me.” She inhaled, a deep, steadying breath. 

“I was asleep, and I was awoken just after midnight by these terrible screams. Eliot came to my room and he was pale as fresh cream. He--he said there was something terribly wrong with Emma, that the screams were from the pain and the bleeding but . . . there was just this look about him. I held his hand as we listened to the doc arrive. When we heard she’d bled out, Eliot, he . . . it was like he wanted to go in the ground right along with her. He cried but there was no sound, none at all. I think that was what frightened me--the silent tears. The coroner came and took her body away and Eliot never spoke a word. He just sat on my bed as all the hysteria went on in the parlor. The Waughs, they left with Dr. Bowen a short time later and Eliot and I went downstairs. There was a lot of blood. I remember wondering how I’d ever clean it up. Eliot stood there, staring, and I begged him to speak.” 

“And did he?” Quentin asked. Margo nodded, a tear slipping from her left eye. 

“He said, ‘he’s finally done it.’ When I asked him what he meant, he wouldn’t answer. Perhaps it was just shock. I got him to his room and saw him to sleep.” 

“He’s finally done it,” Quentin repeated. “You’re certain that’s what he said?” 

“Yes.” Margo finished her water. 

Quentin removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. 

“When I saw Eliot last, he told me that his father murdered Emma.” He took out a handkerchief to polish the glasses’ lenses. Margo’s eyes widened. 

“He told you--” She wiped a hand over her mouth. “If it’s true, there’s little justice we can give the poor girl, with Ezra dead. But what does this have to do with the murders?” 

“Perhaps nothing,” Quentin replied. Perhaps it’s only what Eliot perceives, but I daresay we wait for the inquest before I look into it any further.” 

T


	5. Five

The morning of the inquest found a crowd of people gathered around the White Falls courthouse. While the proceedings were closed to the public and newspaper reporters, there was enough fervor to draw people to watch everyone arrive. At 8:45 a.m. a carriage arrived, drawing excited murmurs from the crowd. Henry Fogg stepped down and walked up the long entrance, giving a reserved nod to the crowd. Shortly after he vanished into the building, another carriage rolled up. The crowd pressed toward it. Quentin stepped down, then Eliot, along with a guard to ensure he didn’t flee. Eliot kept his head up and stared straight ahead as they approached the courthouse. Eliot flattered only once, when he saw Margo at the edge of the crowd. She reached out a hand in support and then the guard tightened his hand on Eliot’s arm and urged him forward. Eliot flinched and Quentin frowned. 

“You needn’t be so rough with him.” 

“I’m all right,” Eliot said as they went inside and some of the onlookers peered through the windows. Quentin went to the defense’s table and set his briefcase down. He wore a light brown suit with a checkered pattern bow tie and dark loafers, secondhand, but he’d managed to bring out a shine on the tops and sides. Eliot wore a black suit to show his mourning status, but the heat made him tug at his collar repeatedly. Judge Josiah Blaisdelle entered and the assembled people rose. Two court bailiffs led Margo into the courtroom. She was a serviceable black dress and hat, and wrung a handkerchief repeatedly between her small hands. As the bailiffs led her to the witness box, her lips began to tremble. 

“This inquest is now begun,” Judge Blaisdelle declared, and glanced down at Margo, who looked like a fawn brought to bay by hunting dogs. 

“Miss Hanson . . .” Fogg approached the witness box, and Margo’s cheeks flushed. 

“Please. I’ve gone over it so many times now, I haven’t anything more to tell you!” 

“The court recognizes your cooperation in this matter, Miss Hanson. However, we insist that you answer any question posed to you during the course of this inquest, is that clear?” 

Eliot shrugged his shoulders in a silent gesture of protest and Quentin laid a hand on his arm. 

“It’s all right,” he murmured, and the gold flecks in Eliot’s eyes seemed to spark. 

“She has nothing to do with this!” He whispered. 

“Silence please,” the judge intoned, and Eliot folded his arms over his chest. Quentin patted his arm as Fogg stepped closer to Margo. 

“Miss Hanson, how long have you worked in the employ of the Waughs?” 

“Nearly four years,” Margo replied. Fogg nodded. 

“And how would you describe the atmosphere in the home? That is, did you see Eliot display affection for his parents?” 

“Affection, sir?” 

“Yes. Did Eliot hug his parents, spend time with them, speak with what you would consider an affectionate tone?” 

“Mr. Waugh--Ezra--wasn’t an openly affectionate man. He was strict, proper and businesslike, even at home. But Eliot was always respectful of him and Mrs. Waugh.” 

“Always?” Fogg echoed, and Margo nodded. Fogg opened a folder and studied the paper inside it a moment. 

“So, on February 9th of this year, you didn’t tell Maude Crandall, shopkeep at the Center Street Market, that you felt things were ‘not good’ in the Waugh house, and that you wanted to give your notice?” 

Margo blinked and her hands twisted her handkerchief until the lace edges threatened to fray. 

“I don’t recall what words I used. But what I said had nothing to do with Eliot. I wasn’t getting on with Mrs. Waugh at the time and I was in a poor temper.” 

“And why was that?” 

“We--that is, Eliot and I--thought I might move out of the attic space and onto the second floor. The attic room is like an icebox in the winter and an oven in the summer.” 

“And you thought you’d move into Emmaline Waugh’s room?” Fogg asked. Margo frowned. 

“That’s what we discussed. But Mrs. Waugh, she got angry.” Margo flicked a glance at Eliot. “There was a nasty row, and when I went to the market later that day . . .” 

“You shared your displeasure with Mrs. Crandall.” 

“I did. But it all blew over that week and I stayed on.” 

“Yes, I see. Now, on the day of these most unfortunate murders, you say you washed the home’s windows and then went to lie down in your room?” 

“That’s right. I was feeling poorly and went to lie down.” 

“So you can’t account for Eliot’s whereabouts during the time of the murders?” 

Margo paused, biting her lower lip, and Judge Blaisdelle looked down at her. 

“Please answer the question.” 

“No! I can’t! But Eliot didn’t do this thing! He’s a good man! Far better than any I’ve met!” Margo buried her face in the handkerchief. 

“Mr. Fogg, have you any further questions?” The judge asked. 

“No, your honor.” 

“You may step down, Miss Hanson,” the judge said and Margo fled, sobbing. Eliot half-rose to intercept her but Quentin tugged him back down. 

“She’ll be all right. I’ll look in on her later, I swear--Eliot, please!” Quentin whispered as one of the bailiffs began to draw his baton. Eliot’s muscles tensed before he took his seat again. Quentin nodded in relief. “Good man.” 

“Mr. Fogg, please call your next witness,” the judge requested. 

“I call Eliot Isaac Waugh.” 

Eliot stood and glanced at Quentin, who nodded. He took the stand and faced Fogg, his gaze meeting that of the prosecutor. 

“Mr. Waugh, how would you describe your relationship with your parents?” 

“Cordial.” 

“Cordial,” Fogg nodded. “Yet you did not call Sarah Waugh ‘mother’ and it was noted by several people in town that you often shopped alone and separately from your stepmother.” 

“Yes. I didn’t feel comfortable calling her mother.” 

“Before or after your sister died?” Fogg asked and Quentin watched, sweat beading at his temples, as Eliot scowled. 

“How dare you bring her into this!” 

“She’s already in it, Mr. Waugh! The people of White Falls noticed a shift in your family’s dynamics after Emmaline’s passing--why?” 

“To the devil with the townsfolk!’ Eliot snapped. “They don’t know anything about us!” 

Judge Blaisdelle banged his gavel. 

“Mr. Waugh, you will answer the question.” 

Eliot closed his eyes a moment. 

“Because grief divides people, Mr. Fogg. I know the palliative is that it brings people closer together, but that’s not always the reality. Family members are still individuals who process grief in different ways. My stepmother’s way was to try and pretend it didn’t happen, and my father threw himself into his work. I went to Emma’s grave more often than not. But then, I suppose your informative townsfolk didn’t mention that?” 

The corners of Fogg’s mouth turned down, as if he’d tasted something bitter. 

“That didn’t come up in my interviews, no. So you allege that sister’s death drove a wedge between you and your parents?” 

“Yes.” 

“Enough to the point where you wanted to harm them?” 

“No.” 

“The coroner believes they were murdered with a hatchet, yet police found no weapon. Were there any weapons such as that in your home?” 

“No, I don’t think so. Maybe there was an old axe in the cellar but it was dreadfully dull, and the handle was broken. I don’t think it could have done that kind of damage.” Eliot closed his eyes again. “I’ve already discussed this with the police!” 

“So you have, yet the officers who searched your home could find no evidence of a break in. Miss Hanson was in her attic room and you were the only other person home. Tell me, Mr. Waugh, who does that leave to carry out these murders?” 

“I don’t know!” Eliot cried. “Father had enemies--perhaps they killed my stepmother to silence her!” 

“Perhaps that’s what you want us to think!” Fogg shot back, and Quentin jumped to his feet. 

“Your honor, please! The prosecution is harassing the witness!” 

“Withdrawn,” Fogg smiled, but it was false and did nothing to soften his expression. Eliot glared at the D.A., his color high. 

“Do you have any further questions?” Judge Blaisdelle asked Fogg, who paced around before the bench. 

“Only a comment, your honor. Mr. Waugh, you told the police you tarried in the barn eating peaches out of a bushel you stored there.” 

“Yes, I did.” 

“It’s odd, then, that a search of your hayloft yielded no evidence of those peaches. Not pits, nor a basket, nor uneaten fruit you claimed was there that morning.” 

Eliot folded his hands in his lap and pressed his lips together. Fogg nodded. 

“I have no further questions or comments, your honor.” 

____________________________________________________________________________

“The case is going to trial.” 

Quentin stood outside Eliot’s jail cell the day after the inquest. Eliot sat on his narrow cot, his head in his hands. Quentin stepped closer. “We thought that might happen, but that doesn’t mean we’re beaten yet. It--” 

“I’ll hang if I’m found guilty. Won’t I.” Eliot interrupted, and Quentin paused. “Tell me the truth, Quentin, I have little time for anything else” 

“It’s likely that Fogg will seek the death penalty because of the double homicide, yes.” 

Eliot rose from the cot and looked up at the small barred window about two feet above his head. 

“I always suspected I’d follow Emma into the hereafter before long. Do you think there’s really a heaven? I do like the thought of having wings.” 

“You aren’t going to die!” 

Eliot moved closer to the cell door and Quentin touched his hands as he wrapped his finger around the bars. “Eliot,” Quentin said after a moment. “You understand I’m going to do everything in my power to free you, right?” 

“You’ll be going up against Fogg. He’s ruthless. Once he thinks a person is guilty, he’ll stop at nothing to convict them.” 

Quentin’s hands lingered. 

“You said you wanted my trust, and you have it! I just need more time!” 

“Our family is cursed,” Eliot replied in a flat tone. “I’m a product of his blood, his seed. Maybe there was no chance for me or Emma.” 

“I don’t believe in curses, Quentin replied. “What I believe in are facts. Now please, think! If there’s anyone you can think of who make might a viable suspect--” 

“Quentin?” 

“Yes?” 

Eliot caught the attorney’s gaze. 

“I know what happened,” he whispered. I know, but no one will ever believe me, so it’s better that I hang or take my life in this miserable cell!” 

Quentin’s heart seized at the words. 

“It is by no means better, and you will do no such thing, do you understand? Promise me you won’t!’ 

Eliot frowned, all curiosity. 

“Why does it matter so much to you, counselor? You get paid either way.” 

“Don’t try to push me away now. Do you really want some--smellfungus like Henry Fogg to erase you from this life?” 

The ghost of a smile played around the corners of Eliot’s mouth. 

“You truly are as good of a man as you seem, aren’t you, Quentin Coldwater?” 

“What I am is a man who’s trying to save your life! But I can’t do that unless you tell me what you know!” 

Eliot glanced down at Quentin’s hand, still resting on his own, and knew he owed this smart, gentle man a debt. 

“All right,” Eliot said at last. “Come back this evening--the night guard is a lazy sot who comes in drunk and cocks his chair back against the wall to sleep once the main door guards leave.” 

“I will.” Quentin patted his hand. “Do I have your word you won’t try to harm yourself?” 

Quentin’s dark eyes searched his and Eliot cursed whatever deity or circumstance made him a fool for pretty young men. 

“Yes. I promise.” 

____________________________________________________________________________

  
  


The day passed slowly for Quentin who, despite Eliot’s promise, feared his client would harm himself out of sheer desperation. Finally, Quentin’s anxiety drove him out of his boarding house room to a nearby hotel, where they served lunch and dinner on the ground floor, just inside the lobby. As he picked at a cold roast beef sandwich and sipped at a bottle of Coca-Cola, Quentin reviewed the facts as he knew them and mulled over Eliot’s confession. He knew what happened yet didn’t admit to any guilt, so what other possibilities were there? Was Margo involved? Or was Eliot trying to protect someone else? And if he knew the truth, why hadn’t he revealed it to the police on the day of the murders? 

_ Perhaps the truth is something awful,  _ Quentin thought to himself as he sipped his pop.  _ He said no one would believe it, but why? I can’t imagine what could be so impossible to believe.  _

What Quentin found harder to face were the feelings he was developing for Eliot. Yes, there’d been reasons he’d never had a sweetheart and remained unattached, (and a virgin) but Quentin had never bothered to examine them too closely. His studies always took priority and fiction was his greatest pleasure. No young lady had ever caught his eye, and as he spent more time with Eliot, the reason why became clearer. 

“Would you like any dessert, sir?” The server asked, jolting Quentin from his thoughts, and Quentin shook his head. 

“No thank you--wait, could you wrap up a slice of apple pie for me to take along, please?” 

“Be glad to,” the plump, dark-haired woman nodded. Quentin set a dollar under the empty pop bottle and wiped his mouth with a napkin, mildly surprised that he’d finished the sandwich. 

“Here y’are, dearie,” the server said as she set down a decent-sized wedge of pie wrapped in a few paper napkins. Quentin rose and smiled, nodding his thanks as he gathered up the pie. The sun dipped in its late-summer sky, a few storm clouds building in the west, edged with scarlet and golden flickers of lightning. Quentin dodged a few carriages as he crossed the street and headed for the jailhouse, distant rumbles of thunder punctuating his footsteps. The guard at the front desk frowned as Quentin ducked into the building, but since a prisoner’s legal representation wasn’t bound by visiting hours, he couldn’t turn the young lawyer away. He did inspect the wrapped pie, though, presumably to ensure Quentin hadn’t hidden a derringer inside. 

“We usually don’t allow the prisoners outside food,” he groused. 

“I’ll take responsibility if he fashions a skeleton key from the crust,” Quentin replied as he wrapped the slice back up and headed down the hallway, where the night guard unlocked the interior door to the cells. Just as Eliot had said, the man glanced out into the lobby, waited for the desk guard to leave, then cocked a chair back by the heavy interior door, where he pulled his cap over his eyes and settled his chin to his chest. Eliot waited by the cell door, a hint of dark stubble on his jaw. 

“I was hoping it was you. It’s difficult judging the time from this damnable cell window.” 

“You weren’t joking about the guard,” Quentin replied. “I think he may already be asleep.” 

“He’s a boorish fellow,” Eliot frowned. “He tells me how I’m hellbound and a sinner.” 

“We’re all sinners, Eliot.” He handed over the pie through the bars. Eliot’s expression shifted into one of delight. 

“Apple pie!”   


“From the cafe inside the Cobblestone Hotel.” 

“Thank you!” Eliot smiled as he unwrapped one end and took a bite. “Oh, that is heavenly!” 

“I just thought you might like something other than boiled eggs and toast.” 

“You are a thoughtful, thoughtful man.” Eliot smiled, and Quentin felt his ears warm. On the heels of his blush, it occurred to him that making Eliot happy could quickly climb his list of priorities. He fetched a rickety chair from the corner and set it in front of the cell, where he sat down. 

“You didn’t bring your briefcase,” Eliot observed, and Quentin shook his head. 

“I’m here to listen, not to record. Eliot . . . whatever you have to tell me, I’ll take with an open mind.” 

“You say that now--” 

“And I mean it now. Please, Eliot. Trust me.” 

Eliot sighed and nodded as he closed his eyes for a moment. 

“All right, then. Here it is--my father and stepmother were killed by telekinetic energy--energy that came from my body, my mind.” 

Quentin frowned, but in curiosity rather than disbelief. 

“You’re saying you killed them?” He murmured, and Eliot stared at the younger man. 

“You believe it?” 

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horation, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” he replied. A smile touched Eliot’s lips. 

“Shakespeare.” 

“Yes, and I happen to subscribe to the idea. As an attorney, I’m wont to use logic, yes, but there has to be more to life than facts and figures.” 

Hope filled Eliot’s expression. 

“I’m not saying I killed them purposely. This energy inside me . . . I can’t control it. It started when I was thirteen and my body started to change. I kept doves back then, in a small hutch in the barn. One morning, father poisoned their seed because he said it had become too expensive to feed them any longer. I was so angry, and it was like that furious energy pushed outward, like a muscle I didn’t know I had gave this tremendous flex. The hutch jumped off its base and tumbled across the barn as if it weighed no more than a scrap of paper. It missed Father by only a few inches and he turned to stare at me--he never said a word or mentioned it after. He dismantled the hutch the next day and I was never allowed another pet.” 

“God, Eliot,” Quentin moved his chair closer. “And the way they died?” 

“You must recall how I told you that my father killed my sister.” 

“Yes.” 

“My stepmother refused father in the bedroom from almost the first night of their marriage. She was a Puritan woman who believed any type of intercourse was a sin. Once my father realized this and knew he couldn’t sway her, he turned to what he thought of as his property--my sister.” 

Quentin winced as an unpleasant sensation filled his stomach. 

“He . . .?” 

“Yes. And my father was a sadist but he was no fool. He knew there could be no unwanted pregnancies, so he used her in other ways. Do you understand what I mean when I say that?” Eliot asked, and Quentin swallowed as some muscles below the waist clenched shut involuntarily. 

“You mean--” Quentin forced the word out. “--anal.” 

“Yes,” Eliot nodded. I believe it went on for some time, and because my room was adjacent to hers, I heard much of it. He would lock the door from that side and threaten to kill Margo if I tried to interfere. I guess he knew threatening me wouldn’t help. The night she died, I believe Emma finally found the courage to try and fight him. Before then, I think she was too afraid, but I think the disgust and fear finally made her brave enough. Father beat her with a section of broom handle and then . . . and then used it on her.” Eliot cleared his throat and made himself say the distasteful word. Raped her with it. As punishment. The handle had a jagged edge--he’d broken it over her back. It must have torn her womb open.” Eliot took a shaky breath. 

“Oh, Eliot.” Quentin reached through the cell bars to touch Eliot’s hands. Eliot fingers touched them, held them. Quentin sat still, stroking his thumbs over the backs of Eliot’s hands. 

“My father paid Dr. Bowen to cover up what truly happened. She bled to death, yes . . . but not in the way that my mother did. That was caused by a tumor.” 

“Tell me what happened on the fourth,” Quentin said. “You’re safe with me.” 

“My father thought of Emma as his property, but she wasn’t the only one. After she died, Father tried to force my stepmother into his bed. She refused and threatened to tell the constable about Emma if he kept at her.” 

“But she knew.” 

“Yes. My stepmother was a clever shrew, though. She knew if she played the innocent, simple wife that everyone would believe her.” Eliot swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “And when my father turned to me to satisfy his lust? She knew about that, too.” 

Quentin started, nearly toppling himself off the chair. He rose and kicked it aside, his heart hammering. 

“Oh, Jesus. Eliot . . .” 

“When it first began, I suppose I thought it was my due. Because I’d failed to protect the sister who had always protected me. After a time, I tried to bargain, then I pleaded, and one night, about a month ago, I struck him. That might have been the end of it, but he still had his trousers on. He pulled his belt from them and beat me until I was nearly unconscious. Then he took what he wanted anyway.” 

Quentin nodded, feeling tears trembling on his lashes. 

“And that morning?” 

“I lied to you, Quentin. But only partially. I was in the barn--in the doorway, chopping wood for the stove. When Father came home from the bank, he called me inside. I left the hatchet by the back door. He got at me in the parlor, trying to open his fly and force me to my knees at the same time. He stayed standing--I think it made him feel powerful. I heard a noise and looked up to see my stepmother standing at the top of the stairs, watching. She made no move to speak or intervene as father forced his member into my mouth.” A few more tears slid down Eliot’s cheeks. “Quentin, I swear to you, I barely thought the thought. It wasn’t even a thought with words. It was like a mental picture. And--and then the hatchet I’d been using came flying through the air, into the parlor like it had been shot from a cannon. It struck Father between the eyes and he fell back onto the sofa. It struck him again and again, and even though I knew what I had done, I couldn’t stop it. My stepmother screamed and turned to flee and the axe . . . it turned in midair and chased her. I heard it strike her, Quentin. It hit her and then all the energy bled out of me. I fell to the floor, barely able to move. Eliot shook his head. “I never touched that hatchet. I--I killed them with my mind.” 

“Did Margo help you? Afterward, I mean?” Quentin asked, and Eliot nodded. 

“Please don’t be angry with her. She’s the only friend I’ve ever had.” 

“And the hatchet?” 

“Margo weighed it down with a piece of old harrow from the barn and threw it into the water at the base of the falls. It’s supposed to be bottomless, and the currents are so strong that no one can search for it anyway.” 

Quentin fumbled around his inner pockets for a clean handkerchief, found one, and handed it to Eliot. Eliot accepted it with a nod of thanks and wiped his face. 

“I want to thank you for taking this case. And I’m sorry . . . perhaps your next client will be more honest with you.” 

“Next client? Are you assuming I’m dropping you?” Quentin asked. 

“I--well, yes. I lied to you. It’s my curse--this thing that’s in me. It did the deed because I willed it, whether I did so directly or not.” Eliot lowered his gaze. “I deserve to be executed.” 

“Like hell you do!” Quentin whispered in a fierce tone. “I want you to listen to me, Eliot Waugh--and look at me, too!” He reached through the bars and touched his cheek, an action that made Eliot jerk his head up, his amber eyes wide. “You aren’t cursed, Eliot. You’re . . . there’s something inside you that makes you special and whether or not you can control it makes little difference to me. Your father was the curse on your family.” He stroked a thumb over Eliot’s cheek. “Not you.” 

“Quentin,” Eliot whispered, then pressed his face against the lawyer’s hand. Quentin stepped as close to the bars as he could. 

“I’m not giving up on you. I don’t care what it costs me. I’m not going to let them hang you. I’ll break you out of here first!” 

“You can’t risk your career like that.” Eliot shook his head. “You’re the smartest man I’ve ever met! Smarter than Fogg, the judge, or anyone bound to sit on the jury! Find the answer here!” He reached out and tapped Quentin’s temple. Quentin nodded, his gaze locking with Eliot’s as one of Eliot’s big, elegant hands carded through Qurntin’s tawny hair. Quentin felt his heart fall out of rhythm, catch itself, then quicken its pace. Eliot’s forehead pressed against the bars of his cell and Quentin closed the space between their faces, their lips finding each other between the bars. Quentin gave a breathy, shuddering sigh against Eliot’s mouth, both at the sensation and at the idea that he could end up in an adjoining cell if they were caught. Still, that thought wasn’t enough to pull away from Eliot’s lips, which tasted like apples and brown sugar. When the taller man pulled away, pupils blown wide and reflecting Quentin’s face, he touched his own lips. 

“I’m not sorry!” Quentin managed, and Eliot shook his head. 

“Nor I, Quentin.” 

“I won’t let you hang,” Quentin said. “I swear it. I swear to you I’ll find a way to make sure you go free!" 


	6. Six

Sleep eluded Quentin that night and he paced his room until Mrs. Fleming, the owner of the boardinghouse, came to tell him the creaking floor disturbed her sleep. After that, Quentin moved a chair over to the window and gazed up at a pale rind of moon as he set his mind to work on Eliot’s case. 

To say the jury wouldn’t believe the truth was a massive understatement. No one would even attempt to understand, and even Eliot might be surprised as to why Quentin accepted his telekinesis without question. 

Quentin had been about six at the time, and his inquisitive nature led him to where his mother painted, in a small, stifling loft in their home’s attic, a place his mother named off limits to him. The attic had one access point, a foldout ladder that depended from the ceiling, one his mother would pull up after her when she went to paint. One rainy morning, however, six-year-old Quentin found it unfolded and its sturdy steps simple to climb. As he ascended, he heard his mother laughing--an odd, rare sound, as Regina Coldwater was a melancholy woman much of the time. When Quentin reached the riser at the top of the ladder and peered over it, the sight that met him both shocked and amazed him. 

His mother stood nude in front of a large canvas, her back to him. Her fingers drew golden runes in the air. Two watercolor brushes moved across the canvas of their own accord, filling in a turbulent sky and a sea filled with whitecaps. His mother’s form swayed, trancelike, as the brushes danced and she laughed, delighted in what she was creating. Quentin backed down the ladder after a few minutes, his child-size reasoning telling him that he shouldn’t reveal this to his father because he’d probably get scolded for spying on his mother and looking at her while she was nude. He’d never asked his mother any questions either, but when she never returned from her painting sabbatical, Quentin felt he understood better than he would have if he hadn’t seen her working magic. 

_ The jury won’t believe Eliot’s truth any more than my dad would have accepted what I saw that day as a child. There has to be another strategy, one I can fight Fogg with!  _

Quentin rose from his chair, bumping it to one side and giving a snort of frustration as he did so. 

“There’s something you’re missing, you fool,” he muttered to himself. “And you’d better realize what that is before they find Eliot guilty and stretch his neck!” 

____________________________________________________________________________

The morning of the first day of Eliot’s trial dawned hot and humid. Many of the citizens of White Falls lined the street and either side of the courthouse walkway for a glimpse of the major players in the case. The interior of the courtroom, packed to capacity with journalist and punters, seethed with humidity. Men and women alike cooled themselves with paper fans and empty envelopes. Fogg and his team arrived first, two policemen carrying covered square items they set on the prosecutor’s table. This caused a mild buzz among the spectators, but when Eliot entered with Quentin leading him and a jailhouse guard walking behind him, the buzz reached an audible pitch and then hushed almost right away. Eliot sat, his chin up, and avoided looking at anyone but Quentin. Quentin opened his briefcase and withdrew a legal pad and some notes. Eliot glanced at the covered boxes on the prosecutor’s table. 

“What do you suppose those are?” He asked Quentin in low tones, and Quentin glanced over. 

“Hard to say. Maybe some kind of alleged evidence. With Fogg, you never know.” 

“All rise!” The burly bailiff called out. “White Falls District Court, Morgan County, is now in session. Judge William T. Blaisdelle, presiding.” He announced as the judge entered the room and took his seat behind the bench. A severe-looking man of average height and possessing a massive waxed mustache, Blaisdell’s grey eyes swept the room. 

“Be seated,” The judge said as he settled himself into his chair. “This case is an unusual and shocking one, as such crimes rarely occur in White Falls. However, despite the terrible details the jury may hear and see, I would like to remind each member that he is sworn to carry out his civic duty. This is the State versus Eliot Isaac Waugh, currently charged with double homicide. Mr. Waugh, you will now inform the court of how you intend to plea.” 

Quentin got to his feet. 

“Your honor, on behalf of my client, we plead not guilty.” 

The scratching of journalists’ pens on paper filled the following silence as Quentin sat back down. 

“So entered,” the judge nodded. Mr. Fogg, you may proceed with your opening statements.” 

“Thank you, your honor.” The stocky man got to his feet and slipped on a pair of barrister’s glasses which, Quentin mused with a silent huff, he probably only wore out of fashion. “Ladies and gentlemen of the gallery, and distinguished members of the jury. I submit that his honor is correct, that these grisly murders of two prominent citizens of White Falls are both shocking and gruesome. And it comes only a few years after Ezra Waugh tragically lost his daughter, Emmaline.” 

Eliot’s fists clenched and Quentin put a hand on his arm, warning him with a touch to not interrupt or speak out. Eliot gave an audible exhale but nodded in compliance. 

“You may say the tragedy is that these poor souls died before their time, but I say the true tragedy is that their deaths were delivered by the hands of their only son, and in cold-blooded forethought! I intend to prove that Eliot Waugh slaughtered his parents, knowing he would inherit their money and property.” Fogg stepped back to the prosecutor’s table, indicating his opening statement was completed. 

“Mr. Coldwater,” the judge prompted, and Quentin rose as he took a deep breath. 

“Your honor, distinguished members of the jury,” he began, focusing on each word so he didn’t stutter, “Eliot Waugh has suffered untold sadness due to the untimely deaths of his birth mother and his older sister, and is now grieving deeply over the murders of his father and stepmother. The prosecution would have you believe he committed these crimes, but I submit to you that my client has neither a cruel or greedy temperament. Was Ezra Waugh wealthy? Yes . . . but on paper. He and his family lived a simple and uncomplicated life at their home on Second Street, a humble existence. No . . . these murders were not the actions of an embittered son but of someone with a terrible vendetta against Ezra Waugh and his family.” Quentin stepped back to the plaintiff’s table and while Eliot kept his expression neutral, affection and admiration for Quentin bloomed in his heart like a rose. 

“Very well,” the judge nodded. “This court will stand in recess for fifteen minutes,” Blaisdelle said as he dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief and then rapped his gavel. The jury members filed out to drink water, puff on cigars and pipes, and consider what they had heard. Quentin poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the table and handed it to Eliot. 

“Here, I don’t want you getting faint.” 

“You’re very kind,” Eliot smiled as he took a sip. Quentin bent his head to his notes to hide a blush. 

“I just want to make sure you have your wits about you. Fogg might call you to the stand or cross-examine you if I’m allowed to question you today.” 

“I believe I’m ready,” Eliot nodded. 

The jury returned a short time later and took their seats, smelling like tobacco, sweat, and the heady perfume of midtown White Falls baking in the heat of a late-August morning. Eliot drained his water glass and Quentin resisted the urge to pat his hand--he feared Fogg’s sharp eyes. 

“It’ll be all right,” he said instead, and they both rose as the judge returned from his chamber. 

“Mr. Fogg, you may call your first witness,” Judge Blaisdelle said once he called court back in session. 

“Thank you, your Honor. I call Mildred Roth to the stand.” 

Eliot blinked as the grey-haired yet robust owner of the White Falls Pharmacy rose from the sea of spectators and took the stand and arranged her sensible calico skirt before nodding at Fogg. 

“We all appreciate you being here, Mrs. Roth,” Fogg began. 

“Anything to help the citizens of White Falls,” she smiled, adjusting her triangular spectacles. 

“Very good! Mrs. Roth, are you familiar with the Waugh family?” 

“Yes of course, sir,” she replied, her voice edged with a faded Scots burr. “They’ve come to my pharmacy since the children were naught but tiny things, wailing in their prams.” 

“So if I asked if you were certain it was Eliot Waugh who came into your store, you wouldn’t mistake him for another?” 

“No, I wouldn’t, sir. The lad stands head and shoulders above most his age in town.” 

“So it was he who asked you for a certain nostrum that is known to be a dangerous poison, on the morning of July 28th?” 

“Oh aye, it was Eliot.” 

“And can you tell me, specifically, what he asked for?” 

“Prussic acid. I sell it in small amounts, but only to farmers and the like who use it for pest control--mice, rats, insects.” 

“And what did Mr. Waugh say he wanted it for?” 

“For his stepmother . . . he was going to clean a sealskin cape he said he found in a trunk in their basement. To surprise her, I suppose, but I told him I couldn’t sell such a thing to someone who’s never handled it.” 

“And does such an acid have a cleansing effect on sealskin?” 

“Oh aye, it’ll remove the stains well enough, but I imagine you’d have to re-treat the hide after, to restore the waterproofing.” 

“I see,” Fogg nodded. “And was Mr. Waugh angry when you refused him the acid?” 

“I’d say disappointed. Eliot is a gentle man, at least in my experience.” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Roth. Your testimony is appreciated.” Fogg stepped back and the judge nodded to Quentin. 

“Your witness.” 

“Thank you, your Honor.” Quentin approached the witness. 

“Mrs. Roth, how long have you managed the White Falls Pharmacy?” 

“My husband and I have run it for over 20 years now.” 

“That’s quite impressive,” Quentin nodded. “So you would say you have an extensive knowledge of medicines and chemicals that pose a health hazard to humans, such as Prussic acid?” 

“I do, sir.” 

“When you told Mr. Waugh that the acid is poisonous, did he seem surprised?” 

“Surprised, sir?” 

“Yes. Did he seem to not realize its poisonous properties?” 

“Oh. It’s hard to say, sir. We discussed the reason for him wanting it more than its actual dangers.” 

“So it’s possible he had no idea the acid could be used as a poison?” 

“Aye, I suppose it could be.” 

“Thank you. No further questions,” Quentin said. 

Once Mrs. Roth stepped down, Fogg straightened his tie. 

“I call Eliot Waugh to the stand,” he said, eliciting a brief spate of hushed whispers from the crowd before the judge’s glare silenced them. Eliot rose and took the stand, his expression calm. The gleam in Fogg’s eyes looked almost predatory to Quentin as the prosecutor approached Eliot. 

“Mr. Waugh, you say you were in your family’s barn when the murders of your father and stepmother occurred.” 

“That’s when it must have happened. Father was alive when I left out the back door, and I had no idea my stepmother had returned from visiting her sick friend.” 

“Ah yes, the sick friend, and the note Mrs. Waugh received! Who sent it?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Who delivered it?” 

“I don’t know!” 

“And where is this mysterious note?” 

“It was for my stepmother! I can’t tell you what she did with it or what became of it!” 

“And she returned while you were outside doing what? Looking for hunting equipment?” 

“Fishing. I wanted to see if I could catch some trout for supper.” 

“You weren’t searching for a weapon? An axe, perhaps?” 

“No! We’ve only one axe, and it’s in our basement. The handle is broken and my father spoke of replacing it, but he never did.” 

“Is that right? Then can you tell me why officers who searched your property found freshly-chopped wood on your property, but no axe?” 

“I--” 

“Is it because you used that axe on your parents? Used it to do this?” Fogg turned to the covered squares on the table and removed the cloth coverings with a flourish. A human skull sat in each, the face of one distorted and shattered. Each bore a label: 

**WAUGH, E.**

**WAUGH, S.** **  
  
**

The collective gasp that shuddered through the crowd was too audible for the judge to silence right away. He banged his gavel as Eliot stared at the skulls and his face went the color of cottage cheese. His eyes rolled back and his legs folded like a buckshot doe as he collapsed to the floor. 

“Eliot!” Quentin jumped up from his chair and ran to his fallen client as a few other spectators fled the room. “Please, bring me some water!” He called to the bailiff. Fogg watched, his expression neutral, but Quentin could see the triumph in his eyes. “You unimaginable bastard!” Quentin snapped at him, and Judge Blaisdelle banged his gavel again, louder this time. 

“Enough! This court stands in recess until 9 a.m. tomorrow morning.” 

Fogg frowned. 

“Your honor, surely a bit of water will revive him--” 

“We stand in recess!” The judge repeated, and Quentin could only watch as several guards lifted Eliot and carried him out of the courthouse and into a waiting carriage, which clattered off toward the jailhouse. 


	7. Seven

Quentin hurried to the jailhouse on foot, only to be told that Eliot was being treated and that he would not be allowed visitors until that evening. His stomach churning over Fogg’s actions, Quentin headed back toward the boarding house, a thumping in his temples adding a touch of queasiness to his stomach. As he reached the three-story stone building, he saw a petite woman in a wide-brimmed hat and a blue dress sitting on the wooden bench to the right of the front door. She stood as Quentin approached. 

“Hello, Quentin,” she said, and Quentin stared at her. Then she removed her hat, and hair the color of unstrained honey tumbled down her shoulders. Sense memory flooded Quentin’s mind, making him feel dizzy. 

“M-Mother?” 

“Yes, darling.” She smiled, looking much younger than her 54 years. “It’s so good to see you!” 

“I . . . how did you . . .” Quentin stammered, and she took his hands. 

“It’s a hot day, son. Let’s go inside.” 

“I--uhm, yes, all right.” Quentin led her inside and into the common room, which featured a large fireplace and some secondhand yet comfortable furniture. Regina Coldwater sat down on the tan couch and smiled at her son. 

“Look at you. All grown up.” 

“I just turned 22,” Quentin nodded, as if this woman hadn’t birthed him herself. “Mother, what are you doing here? I haven’t seen you in over thirteen years!” 

“I know darling, and I am sorry. I was in France, then Italy and Greece, touring with other painters, and I’m terribly bad at letter writing. How’s your father, then?” 

“He’s well--he gets stomach upset sometimes but his physician says it’s mostly his poor diet. He forgets his greens . . .” Quentin rambled before giving a weak chuckle. “My God . . . Mother, how did you find me?” 

Regina reached into her brightly-colored canvas travel bag and withdrew a well-worn page from a newspaper. 

“I still have connections in the states, love! A friend sent me this.” She passed it to Quentin, who read the headline: 

**Double Murder in White Falls: Trial To Begin for Suspected Hatchet Killer**

**“** When I saw this and read the article, I knew I had to come see you. One of the women in my group is quite a decent soothsayer, and she told me that you’d soon come to trouble in the trial. She said she saw you being devoured by twin skulls.” 

Quentin jerked at the words, upsetting a nearby lamp. He reached out to steady it, knowing Mrs. Fleming would give him hell if he broke it. 

“Twin skulls?” 

“Yes. And Irene is rarely wrong about her more powerful visions. Quentin, darling, I know I’ve been absent and I am sorry, but there are reasons you couldn’t have understood when you were nine.” 

Quentin chuckled and Regina cocked her head. 

“What’s funny?” 

“You’re a magician,” he said, watching her dark eyes widen. “Or something of the kind. I saw you one time when I was a child. You were painting, but the brushes were moving on their own. And it wasn’t a dream--it was midmorning and I was wide awake.” 

“Oh! Oh Quentin, darling . . .” 

“Mother, it’s all right. And your friend is correct--I am in trouble because of two skulls.” Quentin reached for her hand and she took it, a smile trembling on her lips. “But perhaps you can help.” 

__________________________________________________________________________

After a long lunch with his mother and a great deal of catching up, Regina left the cafe to make contact with an old friend while Quentin walked to the jailhouse to see Eliot. He’d given his mother some details about the trial that the judge or Fogg might not approve of, but that stunt the prosecutor had pulled told Quentin the gloves were off anyway. Fogg was, in his mother’s words, “a right tosser,” and if Quentin had to bend the rules, then so be it. 

Quentin checked in with the guard at the duty desk, who gave him a look one might give a smelly stewbum before crossing the street to travel upwind. Quentin knew the White Falls newspaper, The Courier, was all but boiling with stories and commentary about the trial, and little of it was kind to Eliot. Quentin ignored the man and made his way to the cell block. He found Eliot laying on his cot, a cloth draped across his forehead. His eyes were closed, but the long sable lashes fluttered when he heard Quentin’s footsteps. 

“Quentin!” He said, opening his eyes and setting the cloth aside before standing up. Quentin reached through the bars and took his hands, giving them a squeeze before stepping back, feeling the guard’s eyes on them. 

“Easy does it! Are you all right? They wouldn’t let me come with you or see you when they brought you back!” 

“I’m all right. I think it was just the shock . . .” Eliot glanced at the guard and switched to French. “To think that I did such a thing with my mind! It was overwhelming!” 

“I understand,” Quentin nodded. “It’s okay, and I intend to give Henry Fogg a piece of my mind for what he did. Desecrating a body--any body--for courtroom sensationalism? Disgusting!” 

“I saw the look on some of the jury members’ faces when Fogg mentioned the damned peaches. It made me look guilty.” 

“Evidence is often lost or moved by people during an investigation,” Quentin replied. “That can be explained.” He opened his briefcase and took out two peppermint sticks he’d picked up at the Center Street Market after lunch and passed them to Eliot.” “Here, I thought you might like something sweet.” 

“Thank you!” Eliot smiled and hid them away under his cot’s mattress. 

“Don’t mention it. And if you decide to suck one down into a shiv and break out of here, we never met.” 

Eliot blinked, his mouth springing open, and Quentin flashed him a grin. 

“You’re teasing me!” Eliot said at last, smiling. 

“I am.” 

“I’m sorry . . . I guess I’m not used to playfulness. Father was so stern.” 

“That’s all right. Do you think you’ll be able to manage if Fogg brings the, uhm . . . evidence back to court tomorrow?” 

“I suppose I’ll have to endure it. The bastard, I think he enjoyed my reaction.” 

“I think he did too.” Quentin paused, wanting to tell Eliot about his mother, but despite the guard’s mask of indifference, Quentin sensed he was listening. “But it’ll be okay. I’m going to the library when I leave here, so I’ll pick you up a few more books.” 

“Thank you. I’d prefer to not read about myself in the paper.” 

“I don’t blame you.” Quentin switched to French. “I have something to tell you when I return tonight. I think it will make you feel better.” 

“Truly?” 

“Yes.” Quentin touched the cell bars. “Hang in there, all right? I know it seems bad, but all is not lost. Not yet.” 

“I trust you,” Eliot nodded, sitting back down on his cot as Quentin prepared to leave. Longing to leave with him, to go someplace private where he could touch Quentin’s hands, his face, and perhaps more if the young attorney permitted, filled Eliot’s heart. “Until tonight?” 

“Until tonight,” Quentin nodded. As he turned to leave, he saw a familiar figure standing at the duty desk outside the heavy steel door that quartered the cell block off from the rest of the jailhouse. A thick glass window showed Quentin the profile of prosecuting attorney Henry Fogg, and anger quickened Quentin’s pace. He strode down the hallway and pushed the door open. Fogg, who’d been chatting with the desk guard, turned at the motion. 

“You!” Quentin snapped, keeping a short leash on his temper, knowing the guard would likely relish the idea of watching a dramatic scene between the two of them unfold. 

“Ah! Mr. Coldwater.” 

“Spare me your fake cordiality! Was it your doing, to have the Waughs’ bodies decapitated and--my God, man--to have the flesh of their faces boiled right off the bone?” 

“As a young lawyer, perhaps you don’t yet understand the impact of visual evidence upon a jury.” 

“Visual evidence! You presented those skulls like a barker at a carnival sideshow!’ Quentin argued. “Perhaps tomorrow you’ll unearth Emmaline Waugh and parade her corpse about for good measure!” 

“Mind you, it’s occurred to me that perhaps Eliot was responsible for her death as well. Maybe I should order an exhumation.” 

“You don’t have that authority! And Emmaline Waugh died of uterine bleeding. Her death certificate and the family doctor both say it!” 

“That boy in there is a murderer,” Fogg replied with a sly smile. “There’s nothing you can do to defend him now. Surely you must see that.” 

“What I surely see is a man who refuses to accept anything but his own viewpoint!” Quentin’s fists clenched. “Stay away from my client and do not speak to me any further outside the courtroom. Good day!” He turned on his heel, inwardly quaking with emotion that he burned off with a brisk walk to the White Falls Public Library. The two-story brick building felt like a blessed sanctuary for Quentin as he entered the building, the silence and the smell of paper soothing his ire. He loosened and pulled off his tie, dropping it into one pocket as the lure of fiction pulled his attention to the shelves. Choosing books always felt like an adventure mixed with the delicacy of a waltz--it was always uncertain where your choices would lead and which partner you’d end up with. 

Quentin let the library’s atmosphere soothe him as he browsed the shelves. He picked out three novels for himself:  _ Mistress Branican _ ,  _ From Whitechapel To Camelot,  _ and a new publication,  _ The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. _ For Eliot, he chose a book of poetry by Rudyard Kipling and  _ Lady Windermere’s Fan _ , knowing his friend likely appreciated Oscar Wilde’s writing. He mulled over Eliot’s case as he made his way to a study table and leafed through the Sherlock Holmes book. He could rather identify with the Watson character, at least in how his thought process worked. He allowed himself an hour of reading time before checking out the books and leaving the library (with a touch of regret, as always,) and headed back to the boarding house with thoughts of a nap. He hadn’t told Eliot for fear of upsetting him, but the visages of those naked, shattered skulls had found their way into his subconscious, where they lurked like snakes. He hid a yawn with one hand as he approached the boarding house and saw his mother sitting on the sun bench again, a wooden box at her feet. 

“Mother, hello,” Quentin greeted her, and she smiled. 

“You’re back! And with all those books! You always did love to read.” 

“They aren’t all for me. Some are for Eliot. Did you make contact with your friend?” 

“I did! And I brought you something that may help your case.” She stood, her dark eyes meeting those of her son’s. “Mind you, I don’t know how ethical you’ll think it is.” 

Quentin picked up the wooden box for his mother. The contents felt dense and didn’t seem to shift as he lifted it. 

“If I’m going to beat Fogg at this and keep Eliot for hanging, I’m ready to listen.” 


	8. Eight

When Quentin returned to the jailhouse, he found Eliot in low spirits. His eyes looked puffy and Quentin noticed his friend hadn’t touched the tray of creamed chipped beef the guards had left him for supper. It sat on the small shelf by the cell’s cot, the milky sauce congealing. 

“Eliot?” Quentin questioned him in a gentle tone as he approached, and the man’s amber eyes lifted as he laid on his cot. 

“I wasn’t sure if you were coming back.” 

“Of course! Why wouldn’t I?” He removed the library books from his leather satchel. “I brought you some books . . . Eliot, what is it?” 

“Ignore my ennui,” Eliot sighed. “I suppose I got to feeling sorry for myself.” He rose and went to the cell door. “Who’s on guard tonight?” 

“The sleepy one, and I think he’s already settled into his chair.” He offered Eliot the books. 

“Poetry! And Oscar Wilde.” A weary smile touched Eliot’s lips. “Thank you, Quentin.” 

“You’re welcome, and why haven’t you touched your dinner?” 

“My appetite has shrunk to the size of a street pebble with the disgusting food they serve.” Eliot wrinkled his nose. Quentin reached into his satchel again and rummaged around until he found an apple he’d picked up from a corner vendor. 

“Here--I want you to eat this. You need to keep your strength up.” 

“So I look good on my way to the gallows?” Eliot smiled as he took the apple, and Quentin rolled his eyes. 

“I’m pleased to see my visit is lifting your spirits!” 

“Truly,” Eliot nodded as he bit into the apple. “So you said you had something to tell me? 

Quentin glanced back at the door guard, who was tipped back, chair against the wall, his watch cap pulled down low over his eyes. 

“I do, and it might be hard to believe at first.” 

“Given what you know, do you really think I’ll have a problem believing anything you tell me?” 

“Good point,” Quentin replied with a rueful smile. He put a hand on one of the bars of the cell and Eliot reached out to touch it. The young attorney stepped closer. 

“Listen . . .” 

___________________________________________________________________________

Court reconvened the following day, with further testimony scheduled for both sides. The skulls had been removed from the courtroom, much to Fogg’s chagrin. By then minutes to nine, everyone had assembled, with much of the attention on Fogg, who was rumored to give his closing statements by the afternoon. 

“Are you sure about this?” Eliot murmured to Quentin, who busied himself with polishing his glasses. 

“Sure? Not entirely . . . but it’s the best chance we’ve got.” 

Judge Blaisdelle appeared a moment later and Eliot got to his feet, his stomach feeling thick and sour. 

_ Please, whatever or whoever is out there, please don’t let me vomit or soil my pants.  _

“Be seated,” the judge said after a moment, and Eliot moved back to the bench, wishing he could loosen his tie. He watched as Fogg called two more witnesses--Patrolman Allen and the Waugh’s neighbor, Mrs. Daniels. As Quentin cross-examined them both, Eliot tried to silently talk away hia nausea. While August was moving along at a steady pace, the weather hadn’t cooled much. 

Two hours passed, then three. When Judge Blaisdelle dismissed the final witness for the prosecution, Quentin stood. 

“Your honor, with permission, I’d like to call a new witness.” 

Judge Blaisdelle frowned at the young attorney. 

“A new witness?” 

“Yes, your honor.” 

The judge gave Quentin a long look before nodding. 

“All right, Mr. Coldwater, proceed.” 

“I call to the stand Marjorie Williams!” 

A shiver of murmurs ran through the spectators as a plump woman in a homespun dress and her dark hair done up in a sensible, matronly bun approached the witness stand. She sat, smoothed her skirt, and settled a pair of square spectacles on her nose. She looked as though in any other setting, she’d have a pile of knitting in her lap. 

“Will you state your name for the record, please?” Quentin asked her, and she nodded. 

“Marjorie Rose Williams.” 

“Thank you. And Mrs. Williams, how do you know Eliot Waugh?” 

“I’ve known the family for years. Ezra, he was a clever businessman and Sarah, well . . . you never knew a more devoted wife.” 

“Of course. And on the day of August 4th, can you tell me what you saw or heard?” 

“Yes. I woke up feeling poorly--my stomach was upset, so I asked my neighbor to fetch a delivery boy from the corner . . . the ones that sell newspapers and the like. I wrote a note to Sarah, asking her to visit me.” She reached into a pocket and withdrew a piece of paper. “It’s here . . . she left it when she arrived, on my nightstand.” 

Eliot glanced at the jurors, some of whom were exchanging surprised looks. 

“May I see that?” Quentin asked. 

“Of course.” The woman handed it over and Quentin adjusted his glasses. 

“Let the record show the note reads, ‘Dearest Sarah, I am feeling unwell. Please visit so we might share a cup of tea. Yours, Marjorie.’ It’s dated the 4th of August.” Quentin spared a glance at Fogg who, he was pleased to see, looked considerably less smug than the day before. 

“It’s something we did often, y’see,” Marjorie explained. “I’ve always had a fussy tummy and Sarah would come and make a soothing tea. We’d bide awhile--talk about the church doings and such. She was always kind to me.” 

“Very good. And the morning of the 4th, can you tell me what you heard or saw?” 

“It’s as a I said, we chatted awhile, and I was feeling better--much better, so I walked Sarah back to Second Street. I saw Eliot out by the barn and Mr. Waugh was asleep on the sofa in the parlor.” 

“Did you speak to Eliot?” 

“No sir, but I know the family well enough to be sure it was him. There’s no mistaking his form for anyone else in the family.” 

“How long did you stay at the Waugh’s home?”

“I didn’t tarry long . . . long enough for Sarah to bring in a bushel of peaches from the hayloft for me. Ripe, they were, and so delicious!” 

“And you took them with you?” 

“I did! I made them into some lovely summer pies.” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Williams.” Quentin stepped back and the judge nodded at Fogg. 

“Your witness, Mr. Prosecutor.” 

“Thank you.” Fogg stepped up to the witness stand. 

“Mrs. Williams, you say you’re sure it was Eliot Waugh you saw that day?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Did you see Mrs. Waugh speak to him?” 

“No sir, but that wouldn’t surprise me. She and Eliot had little in common and wouldn’t chat idly.” 

“You believe it’s possible Sarah Waugh went into the barn for the peaches, yet her stepson neither saw nor heard her?” 

Mrs. Williams offered a benign smile. 

“Have you been inside the Waugh’s barn, Mr. Fogg? Ezra didn’t care to keep animals and had it converted four or five years ago. There’s four sections, all cordoned off with wooden doors. I reckon Eliot could have been anywhere in the barn when Sarah was fetching the peaches.” 

“You say you didn’t stay long--can you estimate the length of your visit?” 

“Perhaps fifteen minutes.” 

“And Eliot didn’t return to the house during this time?” 

“No sir.” 

Fogg gave the woman a long stare, which she met with an unbothered gaze of her own. 

“No further questions,” he said at last. Judge Blaisdelle nodded. 

“The witness is excused,” he said, and Mrs. Williams stepped down. She made her way to the back of the room, where a reporter made room for her to sit. Eliot’s heart lifted with hope, as though Fogg possessed an excellent poker face, Eliot could see frustration in the man’s dark eyes. 

“Mr. Fogg, if you have no other witnesses, are you prepared to give your closing statements?” 

Fogg cleared his throat. 

“I ask the court for a brief recess.” 

“Granted. The court stands in recess for fifteen minutes.” Judge Blaisdelle rapped his gavel and the assembly filed out. Fogg marched up to Quentin. 

“Something I can do for you, Mr. Prosecutor?” 

“I don’t know what you did or where you found that woman--” 

“I found her at her home, where I convinced her to testify.” Quentin shuffled some papers as he spoke. “It’s one of the hallmarks of a good lawyer.” 

“You and that murderous boy paid her off!” 

“Please. My client’s assets are frozen and one of the few things I own outright is this briefcase.” Quentin nodded to it. “Make your closing statements, my good man, and we’ll see which way the jury votes.” Quentin turned his back on the older man, who gave a stammering huff of disbelief before storming back to his own table. 

“I don’t think he found you very cordial,” Eliot murmured, and Quentin flashed him a grin. 

“Call me petty, but I enjoyed it.” 

“He deserves petty.” 

When the court reassembled a short time later, Fogg seemed to have his temper under the bridle once again and resumed his usual arrogance as he made his closing statements. 

“Gentlemen of the jury, you have seen and heard a great deal of information during this trial, but I ask that you do not allow yourselves to become distracted from the facts! One--the authorities found freshly-cut wood on the Waugh’s property despite Mr. Waugh’s insistence the family owns no axes and two, that Eliot Waugh’s relationship with his father and stepmother was based on hostility and disrespect on this young man’s part, Members of the jury, I ask that Ezra and Sarah Waugh be given justice! The prosecution rests.” 

“Mr. Coldwater? Your closing statement, please,” the judge requested. 

“Yes, your honor. The prosecution would have the assemblage here believe Eliot Waugh’s parents suffered under his treatment when in truth, Ezra Waugh was a well-known miser with little empathy for those who came to him in their time of financial need. Those who killed Ezra and Sarah would have likely put an end to Eliot too, had he been in the house, as Ezra did have his enemies in town. The prosecution would also like you to consider the presence of freshly-chopped wood on the property--wood that may have been chopped by one of several part-time hands Ezra was known to employ, for pennies on the dollar, of course, during the fruit tree harvest season. What you see here, gentlemen, is not a killer but a man who came upon the aftermath of a murder. No more. The defense rests.” Quentin took his seat as the judge nodded. 

“The jury will now deliberate and return its verdict,” he announced, and the jury filed out to follow the bailiffs to the jury room. Fogg settled himself at the prosecutor’s table with a newspaper, while Judge Blaisdelle called a recess before vanishing into his chambers. Eliot closed his eyes, and Quentin touched his hand. 

“Eliot?” 

“I’m all right. It’s just . . . the thought that a dozen men get to decide whether I live or die . . . it’s a bit overwhelming. They’re in there, right now, and I’ll face the gallows if they deem it so.” 

“It’s difficult, I know. And I can’t promise you an outcome either way. Just know, Eliot, that did my absolute best for you.” 

“I don’t doubt that for a moment,” Eliot replied. “The only good thing about this entire ordeal was meeting you. And you know what’s funny? Even if I hang, I’ll take that to my grave-- I’ll not be sorry for it, no matter what happens.” 

“No regrets?” Quentin asked around the sudden lump in his throat, and Eliot met his gaze in lieu of the touch they couldn’t share. 

“No regrets.” 

___________________________________________________________________________

Quentin expected deliberation to last far into the night, so when the jurors filed back into the courtroom about 90 minutes later, his stomach gave a quiver of unease. Eliot fought to maintain his calm exterior even as he longed to hold Quentin’s hand. Instead, he folded his own into his lap. Judge Blaisdelle returned as well and waited for the courtroom to fill and settle. 

“This court is hereby back in session,” he said at last. Mr. Foreman, has the jury reached a verdict?” 

“It has, your honor,” the tall, mustachioed man replied. His blue eyes glittered with the importance of his delivery. 

“Very well. Eliot Waugh, please rise,” the judge said. Eliot obeyed, staring at a spot on the wall above the judge’s left shoulder. The foreman waited no further. 

“Not guilty!” 

Eliot staggered back and fell into his seat as if he’d been shot. As Quentin placed a hand on his shoulder, Eliot leaned forward, placed his forehead on the railing there, and burst into tears. The journalist in the spectators' seats wrote so furiously that people later said they expected to see smoke rising from the pages. The judge banged his gavel and several people in the back of the room cheered. The court clerk stepped forward. 

“Gentlemen of the jury! You, upon your oaths, do say that the prisoner who sits before you, Eliot Isaac Waugh, is not guilty?” 

“We do!” The jury replied in unison, and the judge nodded as he gave a final bang of his gavel. 

“The plaintiff is hereby freed and acquitted of all charges. This court is adjourned.” 

Quentin felt touches of congratulations to his back and shoulders and he smiled at his supporters for a moment before focusing on Eliot. He took Eliot’s elbow and helped him to his feet, and Eliot turned to hug him. The world fell away as Quentin reveled in the touch, the feel, the scent of the man who had somehow won his heart. 

“It’s all right now, Eliot,” he murmured as the courtroom emptied. They never saw Henry Fogg snap his briefcase shut and march away with so much as a congratulatory word to Quentin, but the depiction of his poor etiquette in the paper the next day, along with the loss of the case, finished him in White Falls. He relocated to Kansas two months later and, in a strange twist of fate, was murdered during a robbery attempt of his Topeka home. 

Investigating authorities noted that the unfortunate Mr. Fogg died from a single blow to the forehead, delivered with what appeared to be a freshly-sharpened axe. 


	9. Nine

“Are you sure this is what you want?” 

Eliot, Quentin, and Margo sat in the kitchen of the Waugh’s Second Street home, which now belonged to Eliot. In the month since the trial’s end, the young man found himself with more money than he’d ever dreamed of . . . yet all he really wanted sat across from him in a simple dove-grey suit, nibbling on a muffin and adding what Eliot thought was a decadent amount of sugar to his tea. 

“Yes, Margo, I’m sure,” Eliot replied. “There’s nothing here for me in While Falls, and Quentin’s mother said if we come to France, we’ll be free of persecution and she can teach me more about my telekinesis.” 

“Magic is real,” Margo shook her head. “And all this time Eliot and I thought it was some kind of curse.” She stirred her tea. “But I’m still not sure how your mother created that surprise witness.” 

“Mrs. Williams?” Quentin smiled. “We needed to create reasonable doubt, and Mother has some friends in the magical community. They loaned her what they call living clay--we molded Mrs. Williams from it, dressed her in some of Mother’s clothing, and Mother used some kind of transference spell to control the way the golem moved and spoke.” 

“Incredible,” Margo murmured. 

“She filled in the blanks, poked holes in Fogg’s case,” Quentin grinned. 

“I still can’t believe your mother risked all that for me,” Eliot said. “I owe you both my life.” 

“Mother says magicals need to look out for each other, and that what happened was your telekinesis protecting you.” 

“I wish it could have protected Emma too,” Eliot said, and Quentin took his hand. 

“I know, El. But you’ll always carry her with you.” 

“I’m going to do more than that,” Eliot replied as he stroked a thumb over the back of Quentin’s hand. “I’m going to have her exhumed and cremated so I can lay her to rest wherever we decide to settle once we reach France.” He paused. “Quentin, love, are you about moving your practice?” 

“Yes. It will allow me to spend time with Mother, so we can get to know each other again. Besides, I decided a long time ago that if we got you freed, I’d never spend one moment apart from you again.” 

“Oh Q . . . “ Eliot leaned across the table to kiss his partner. “I do love you.” 

“And I you,” Quentin smiled. 

Eliot touched Quentin’s cheek. 

_ I may have magic, Quentin Coldwater _ , he thought to himself,  _ but it’s you who has me under your spell.  _

_ ____________________________________________________________________________ _

**Pesmes, Burgundy, France**

**Six months later**

The Ognon River slid past like a silver ribbon of light as Quentin and Eliot sat on the back patio of their new cottage, which boasted a supreme view of the Ognon and the village beyond. Just below the patio, a set of red wooden steps led to a private boat dock, where the two men sometimes launched their canoe from to spend languorous days on the water when the weather was fair. A lush garden surrounded the patio, its flowers perfuming the air. 

The cottage had been on the market for some time, as it needed repairs, but both men fell in love with its charm instantly. The proceeds from the sale of the Second Street house back in White Falls more than paid for the renovation and small office where Quentin set up his new practice in town, assisting both magical and non-magical clients. Margo, too, had prospered with their help and now owned a cozy riverside cafe about a half-mile from the cottage, which was popular with locals and tourists alike. She lived in a semi-detached apartment on Quentin and Eliot’s property--a space all her own and a far cry from the stifling attic room on Second Street. 

“Is Mother Regina coming for supper?” Eliot asked as he and Quentin watched boats make their way up and down the river. 

“Yes, at six. She asked me if you’ve been practicing your lessons.” 

Eliot turned his head and focused on a pink zinnia with a red-and-yellow sunburst center, and it rose from the garden to float into Quentin’s hands. The young man chuckled. 

“So you have been practicing!” He sniffed the flower before leaning over to tuck it behind Eliot’s right ear. 

“I have.” Eliot glanced over at a flowering peach tree in the garden, at the base of which he’d interred Emma’s ashes. A butterfly-shaped stone engraved with her name marked the spot. “Do you think she sees me? Do you think she knows?” 

“I believe she does,” Quentin smiled. “And I’d wager she’s proud of you . . . you found the courage to become who you truly are.” 

“That never would have happened without you.” Eliot raised a hand and Quentin gasped as Eliot floated him through the air and into his lap. 

“El!” Quentin laughed, delighted at the tingle of magic on his skin and at the way Eliot wrapped his long arms around him. 

“Thank you, Quentin,” Eliot said at last. “Thank you for my life.” 

Quentin raised his head, his lips meeting Eliot’s. 

_ There’s magic here--in him, between us, inside the life we’ve made.  _

Below them, silent and reflecting the colors of the coming sunset, the Ognon cut through Burgundy like a slender silver axe, the only witness to Quentin and Eliot’s joining. 

THE END 


End file.
